


This Winding Road We Walk Upon

by Asellas



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Blackwatch shenanigans, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Development, Humor, I'm not good at dialog sorry sorry, M/M, Porn, unedited
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-01
Updated: 2016-07-31
Packaged: 2018-07-19 08:39:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,919
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7353814
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Asellas/pseuds/Asellas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jesse McCree's life has best been defined as a rollercoaster of highs and lows, slow builds and high-speed thrills.</p><p>(I'm shit at summaries I'm sorry.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This actually started out as some snippets I wrote wanting to flesh out more of McCree's background and quickly became something... more. It also became quite long so I've broken it up a bit (which will I hope push me to keep writing on it and get it done instead of living in limbo like so much else does). Also, it's unedited because I just want to post it and get it over with yeah? Before I decide I'm a shit writer and talk myself out of it... >.>
> 
> Also, a shout-out to everyone who has left kudos and commented on my other stories, I'm blown away by the response! You guys are amazing!

Annabelle McCree knew the call wasn’t going to be good the minute the phone rang.

Call it a sixth sense, mother’s intuition, what-have-you, she just knew the minute she answered and a calm voice on the other end asks “Is this Annabelle McCree?” that is was bad. She can barely process everything they tell her, she ends up cutting them off to ask “Is he alive? Is my boy still living?” She sinks into a nearby chair when they tell her he is, offers a quick prayer to God for giving her that much at least. The person keeps talking and Annabelle listens with quiet intent, but they go on and on and suddenly she just can’t bear to listen anymore.

“Where and when can I see him,” she asks, cutting them off mid-sentence. They stumble and there’s a moment of quiet as papers are shuffled and finally they tell her. One week. She marks the date on the calendar, thanks the person on the other end of the line, and hangs up. There were phone calls to make, letters to write, and she needed to find something suitable to wear.

-

The courthouse was busy, all manner of people scurrying about like it was some giant insect hive. Annabelle kept her back straight and a stern expression on her face, walking with a single-minded intent to finally, after seven long years, to see her son. Who had been arrested during a sting operation on the Deadlock Gang. Who was facing most likely a life sentence at a maximum security prison for weapons trafficking, assault, murder, and whatever offenses the prosecutor was going to throw at him.

It made her stomach turn, the thought of it all.

But Annabelle McCree was not some delicate flower, she knew when to buckle up and put on a strong front. So she kept her face stony and walked briskly with every bit of confidence in her being, glaring down anyone who might bar her way from seeing her son. It worked pretty well to, people would take one look at her and scurry away, sensing she was someone they did not want to deal with. It got her curt nods from policemen who were standing guard at doors or slouched waiting for the next trial to begin.

But, apparently, it made her a target to a few others.

“Ma’am, ma’am, a moment please,” one man asks, appearing seemingly out of nowhere in the press of people in one hallway. She doesn’t dignify him with a response, just gives him a scathing look and hopes he backs down. He’s of darker skin, Hispanic most likely she thinks, and though his suit is fitted perfectly she can tell he’s not comfortable in it. He’s soon joined by another man in a suit, this one light-skinned and blond haired.

“You are Annabelle McCree, yes? Might I have a quick moment of your time?” He smiles at her, a flash of white teeth that makes her think of an animal baring its fangs.

“If you’re press I have no comments for you,” Annabelle replies, keeping any emotions from her voice, wanting to move on.

“No ma’am, we’re not from the press. Would you mind stepping into someplace more private?”

Annabelle narrows her eyes at him. Something about him sets off a warning in her mind, telling her to watch out. If he were a snake (and she knows her snakes like every good girl grown up out in the country), he’d be a pit viper, coiled and ready to strike lightning fast.

“Ma’am, we’d just like to speak to you about your son,” the blond man steps in, as if sensing her distrust in his comrade. “We might be able to help him.”

And, just like that, she gives in, her shoulders slumping just a fraction.

“Alright, fine. But keep it quick, please,” she tells them, and the blond man gives her a warm smile. They show her into a nearby empty conference room and close the door behind them. She takes a seat at the table, near enough to the door in case she needed to leave in a quick manner.

“I’m Jack Morrison,” the blond said, and Annabelle couldn’t help the surprise that broke through her façade. Everyone knew of Overwatch, and their stunningly handsome leader. She feels a little guilty at not identifying him sooner.

“And I’m Gabriel Reyes,” the other man supplies, giving Morrison a quick, cutting look. Morrison gives him a slight shrug and stays standing by the door, while Reyes takes a seat across from Annabelle.

“We believe that Jesse was in the wrong place at the wrong time,” Morrison begins. “We can appeal to the judge for his case and see about-“

“Oh, cut the crap,” Annabelle cuts him of. “You and I both know that Jesse ain’t no saint, he’s gotten himself into this mess all on his own. So just tell me, what the hell are you after?”

Morrison tries to look offended but it doesn’t manage to cover his embarrassment. Reyes, on the other hand, just laughs.

“I told you she wouldn’t fall for that,” he tells Morrison, chuckling. Morrison just gives a shrug and sighs, leaning back against the wall. He gives Reyes an offhanded waves and tells him “It’s all your then.”

“This is actually highly classified information, so we’d appreciate it if you keep it between us, and Jesse,” Reyes tells her, and she nods to let him continue. “We’re assembling a team for an offshoot of Overwatch, something that can work covertly. Jesse has a set of skills and information that would be invaluable to this operation. We can offer him this position in lieu of a prison sentence.”

“Jesse, work for the government? You have got to be kidding,” Annabelle almost laughs in Reyes’ face, only common courtesy preventing it. “He ain’t never forgave them for his brother, and I don’t think he’ll be much more receptive of them now.”

“We understand that,” Reyes nods, then leans forward. “That’s why we decided to talk to you first, ma’am. We know that if we just waltzed in and offered him this he’s most likely tells us to fuck right off.” Annabelle gives him a sharp look, and Reyes clears his throat and quickly amends, “Pardon my language, ma’am.” Courtesy observed, Annabelle nods for him to continue. “We don’t want to seem like we’re bartering his freedom for some form of government slavery. I see it more as a chance at redemption, if you will.”

“We’ve read reports from multiple accounts about how, out of the entire Deadlock Gang, Jesse was the one who would stand up for someone he thought was being grossly mistreated. Reports from a couple of released hostages from one incident actually praise him for being kind and looking after them,” Morrison supplies, voice quiet and gentle. While the idea of Jesse actively being in an organization that took hostages made her stomach churn, knowing that somehow, against all odds, the little boy who couldn’t even kill bugs in the family garden still lived on inside the grown-up man she didn’t really even know gave her hope.

“I’ll keep it in mind,” she says. A glance at her watch tells her it’s almost ten. Anxiety comes back two-fold, and she rises before the nervous energy that’s been building all morning makes her want to yell at the two Overwatch agents.

“Thank you for the… conversation. I can’t promise anything, but if it keeps my boy alive and out of prison, well, I’ll be damned if I don’t at least try. Good day, gentlemen.” She gives them a nod and leaves, heels clacking purposefully as she continues her march to the courtroom.

Though, she can’t be all too certain, but before the door shuts behind her she thinks she hears Reyes tell Morrison, “Nice try, Captain America.”

-

A guard catches her before she reaches the courtroom to escort her to another conference room, this one much less friendly and heavily guarded. They tell her she’s got fifteen minutes to talk to Jesse though they’ll be tightly monitored. The looks she gets from the guards tells her they aren’t happy with it, and Annabelle has to wonder if Overwatch managed to pulls some strings to get the meeting fixed. She doesn’t give it much thought, doesn’t really have the time to as they’re unlocking the door and escorting her in and pulling out a chair for her at a small plastic table. She sits down and the guards leave, and she vaguely wonders why they’d leave not leave one guard in the room if Jesse was considered dangerous, though the thought ends as she finally, after seven long years she gets to see him in person.

Her first thought is that bright orange was never Jesse’s color, not without something else to balance it against his dusky skin. Time hadn’t been too kind to him either, he looked worn and old beyond his twenty three years. They’d not let him properly shave or trim his hair recently, giving him a careless, scruffy look that made her want to comb her hand through the brown locks into some semblance of neatness. Annabelle wonders if they’ll allow her to touch him, decides to hell with it, and rounds the table to embrace her son.

“Ma? Ma, is that you,” he asks sleepily, like he’d been dozing off before being carted before the judge.

“Jesse, darlin’, oh, my sweet boy you’re alive, we were so worried,” she mumbles into his hair. “Just look at you, are you alright? Are they treatin’ you alright?” She pulls back to look more closely at him and finally sees it. Why they’d let a convicted criminal unguarded in a room with an old lady.

Because there’s not a whole lot he could do with only one arm.

Jesse sees her face fall when she notices it, shifts uncomfortably at the scrutiny.

“It’s, it’s not that bad, really,” he mumbles, and she huffs at him, rolls her eyes.

“Not bad? Gosh darnit you’re missin’ your _arm_ Jesse!” Annabelle has to stop and take a deep breath to calm herself, causing a scene would not help anything at all. She drags the other chair over and sits down next to Jesse, grasping his only hand tightly. She tried to think of something to say, but suddenly she couldn’t seem to find the right words. The silence stretched out between them, awkward yet at the same time calming for both of them.

“Ma,” Jesse speaks, voice quiet and almost broken, “I… I done messed up.”

“We all make mistakes,” Annabelle reminds him, patting his hand gently to make up for her lack of a proper response.

“No, I done messed up _bad_ , Ma. They tell me the prosecutor is gunnin’ for the death sentence, or a life sentence at the least.” Jesse’s voice breaks, he bites his lip and takes a few shaky breaths. Annabelle wants to just pull him into her arms, but she’s afraid it’d be too much for him, that the fragile façade he’s put up to keep himself together would shatter. The conversation with Reyes and Morrison comes to mind, and while she’s not sure Jesse will take to it, but she had to at least try.

“Jesse, darlin’, listen to me.” Annabelle gently raises Jesse’s chin till he’s looking at her. “We both know you’ve done a lot of bad, but I don’t think God is done with you yet. I think he’s got something bigger in store for you, otherwise why’d you think you were one of the few to make it out of that shoot-out alive? Don’t you dare go countin’ yourself as dead already, you’re a McCree and we don’t give up now, you hear me?” There’s a knock on door and Annabelle knows her time with Jesse is short. She knows what she has to say will make Jesse angry, but she knows Jesse works better with anger than he does defeat.

“You’ve dragged the McCree name through the mud these past years, and now it’s your responsibility to clean it up. I don’t care what it is, but you need to find a way to make up for all the wrongs you’ve done. Think and pray long and hard on it, the Lord will show you the way.”

The door opens and the guard steps in, barks for her that her time is up and to leave. Annabelle gives him a withering look and hugs Jesse close, whispers “I love you, no matter what. Don’t you ever go and forget that now,” in Jesse’s ear. She kisses his cheek and the guard grabs her by the arm, pulling her toward the door. She pulls her arm back, shoots the man her most stern glare, and straightens her pantsuit before marching out of the room. She catches Jesse’s eye before the door closes, not quite certain but she thought she saw the hint of a new resolve in his gaze.

The guards herd her back toward the courtroom. A steady stream of people was now filling the empty room so she slips in to take a seat near the back. In short order the room is packed with journalists, lawyers, policemen, and a wide assortment of people that Annabelle wasn’t sure their function was. A few minutes later a side door opens and the guards pour in, followed by the more important of the Deadlock Gang members that had been captured. Jesse held himself with a quiet resolve, no longer slouching and hanging his head like he had been in the conference room. A motion in the back of courtroom grabs her eye, she turns to see the two Overwatch agents standing along the wall next to the exit. Reyes gives her a clipped nod, which she returns before turning back to see the judge enter.

Somehow, the entire thing goes by in a blur. She can’t remember the names of the judge or even the other gang members, though she can distinctly remember the confident, aggressive way the head prosecutor spoke and informed the judge of the sentences he would be pushing for. It made her stomach churn to think that someone could so vehemently wish to see her son dead, or locked up for the remainder of his life. It felt surreal, like it was some nightmare she couldn’t wake from. Before she knows it the judge is adjourning the session, the actual trial scheduled to begin the next week. Jesse and the other prisoners are herded out amid the clatter of the journalists asking questions and trying to get more information for their articles. Annabelle slips out before anyone tries to speak to her. She doesn’t want them knowing who she was, couldn’t deal with the questions she’d undoubtedly be bombarded with.

She keeps her composure till she gets into her car. She sits in the heat, not bothering to roll the windows down as she waits for the air to cool down, when the tears start to finally slide down her cheeks.

-

Jesse had long since stopped believing in God.

To him, God had ceased to exist when he was fifteen and his older brother had come home from the war as just a folded flag and a casket. He’d never understood why everyone had patted him on the back and told him it was all God’s plan that Daniel had died, that he was now sitting at God’s side in heaven. Jesse had wanted to punch the teeth out of every person who told him that, wanted to yell at them if this God was so powerful and loving why had he taken his brother away from his family and caused them this pain? How could he worship a God who allowed this to happen? He’d never admitted any of this to his family, though, and instead played along with the charade till he’d run away just after his sixteenth birthday.

He’d almost thought that maybe he had been wrong when his mother had strode through the door as he awaited the beginning of his trial. She’d been just as she was when he’d left home seven years ago, though with a few more lines beginning to show on her face. Her presence had been a major comfort, and while he hated to admit it what she had told him made sense. Jesse wasn’t one to shirk his duty, and deep down he knew he had to pay some sort of repentance for the years of bad he’d done. Sure, he hadn’t killed or hurt anyone unless they’d been pointing a weapon at him or one of his comrades, and had tried to keep the property damage to a minimum whenever they staged a raid, but he’d still broken the law and committed countless sins. He figured that mayhaps this was God’s way of giving him a second chance.

He’d _almost_ bought it, at least. He was more inclined to believe in the persuasive power of his mother than some almighty entity in the sky.

Jesse leaned back in his chair and regarded the two Overwatch agents with a good measure of contempt, though some interest at the deal they had outlined to him had managed to leak through. Perhaps it was what they were telling him, or the way they were wording it, but it smacked a little too close to the lecture his mother had managed to give him before nearly being dragged bodily away from him earlier. He wanted to tell them to leave, that their government could go fuck itself for all he cared, but kept the old anger bottled up and shoved it down.

“Well, now, gentlemen. Mighty fine deal you’re proposing, there’s just a little problem with it,” Jesse drawls, then waggles his stump of a left arm at them. At Reyes, in particular, since it was him that had shot the majority of the damn thing off in the first place.

_(He remembers the boom and sudden yells as SWAT and police swarmed the diner, the rapid scramble for whatever weapons were close to hand. Yells and gunfire soon blocked out his hearing and he ducked behind an overturned table to draw his revolvers, wishing he’d though to have that damn machine gun nearby for once. He shot down one policeman who’d gotten to gung-ho and pushed in too far, was sighting down a second when the roar of a shotgun booms nearby and he’s suddenly engulfed in bright, searing pain. He tried to ignore it, to swing his guns around to face the new threat but he left arm ain’t working right. He looks down, bad idea that, to see the remains of his elbow a clotted mess of ruined flesh and bone, the rest hanging on by a few scant tendons and bones. It flopped uselessly when he’d tried to aim the gun, which was now lying in a growing puddle of his blood on the floor. Fuck, he watches as one of the tendons gives out, and he wonders if he was going to see the whole thing plop onto the floor…._

_Don’t think about the damn arm. Don’t think about the blood. Don’t think about it. Don’t think about any of it.)_

Jesse swallows thickly, takes a few measured breaths through his nose before the nausea fades, and gives Reyes and Morrison a tight smile. “Don’t think I’ll be a whole lot of good minus an arm and a gun. Don’t suppose you’d have an extra lyin’ about now, would you?”

The grin Reyes gives him is almost feral, though the laugh that follows takes some of the edge off it.

“Well, you’re just in luck cowboy. We’ve got the best doctor on payroll and she can fit you with a prosthetic that’ll be just as good as the real thing. Providing you take the offer, that is.”

“Don’t suppose you’d give me back my ol’ revolvers too, eh? I’m mighty attached to those,” Jesse asks, mind already decided to accept their offer. Sure, he might become a government dog, but at least this way he’d get his chance to finally do some good, even out the scales so to speak.

“How about one better than those old things,” Reyes offers, leaving Jesse intrigued.

“Well, can’t turn my nose up at that, now can I? Sign me up boys.”

-

“How are you feeling,” Dr. Angela Zeigler asks, smiling at him reassuringly. It had taken two months of measurements, fabrication, fittings, and two surgeries to get to this point. Jesse tips an imaginary hat at her, giving her a toothy smile.

“Feelin’ mighty fine, thanks for askin’ doc.” Jesse is lounging back in the chair she had ushered him into when he’d entered the medbay. He tries to ignore the anxiety as he shrugs out of the shirt, resting the stump of his left arm on the table like he had at every other visit. The last visit she had installed the prosthetic coupling on the end of the stump, and now they were ready to finally attach the prosthetic arm. It was all sleek metal, shiny and oh so expensive looking, a top of the line model according to everyone who had spoken to him about it. He didn’t think that a convict-turned-Overwatch agent such as himself really deserved such a thing, but he wasn’t about to look a gift horse in the mouth.

“Have you felt any discomfort around the attachment site? Or anywhere in general?” She types on a datapad as she looks over her earlier handiwork, prodding gently here and there.

“Nothin’ at all, seems quite alright to me,” Jesse tells her, shifting about till he’s as comfortable as he could get.

“There may be some discomfort or pain during the neural connections. Each body reacts to it differently so we have no real way of judging just how you will react to it. Most patients have said that the sensations last no longer than about five minutes,” Dr. Zeigler informs him.

“Most? How many is most,” Jesse asks, the squirming anxiety in his gut starting to get worse.

“About, I think it was sixty percent.” She looks thoughtful, tapping the side of her datapad as she dug up the memory.

“So, what about the other forty percent? What happened to _them_?”

“You’ll be fine, don’t worry,” Dr. Zeigler assures Jesse, having sensed his growing panic. She gives him a smile and a pat on the shoulder. “You are in perfect health, unlike most who I’ve done this procedure on.” Jesse isn’t sure how, but the growing panic begins to subside at her gentle tone. He’s always amazed at how motherly she can be, though she’s just shy of twenty years old. She attaches a heart monitor to a finger on his right hand, checks back over her datapad before setting it on a side table and sitting on the stool next to the table with his soon-to-be new arm. With a quick, quiet precision she hooks the prosthetic up to the coupling, glancing at Jesse every now and then to make sure he was alright, and attaches some cables running from her datapad to the arm and coupling.

Jesse, for the most part, felt nothing but a little pulling and pinching around the coupling as she worked. He watched her with an odd fascination, amazed at how she managed to work so delicately with the cybernetics and deal with the weight of the prosthetic. It had to weigh more than it looked, there was so much metal in it, but she handled it no less gently than if it were made of actual flesh. And she managed to do it all while looking so damn pretty too.

“Alright, all the major connections are in place, everything looks fine.” Dr. Zeigler gives him another reassuring smile, and Jesse braces for what comes next. “Next I’ll initiate the uplink with your nervous system, so you might want to brace yourself but please do not tense up too much. Are you ready, Mr. McCree?”

“Let’s get ‘er done, doc,” Jesse grunts, his mouth going dry. He’s ready to get it done and over with already, for better or worse. Dr. Zeigler taps at her datapad, adjusts a couple of switches and settings on the arm, hovers a finger over a button on the datapad and the other hand over a similar one on the prosthetic coupling.

“Neural uplink initiating in three, two one-“

Pain so searing his vision explodes into stars blossoms. Jesse isn’t sure if he does anything, screams or jerks violently or what, but thankfully everything fades and goes black a moment after the pain hits.

He wakes up to someone gently patting his face, blinks his eyes open and tries to focus on them.

“Well, _Buenos días,_ sunshine,” Gabriel laughs at him, moves back to give Jesse a bit more room. Dr. Zeigler is watching him closely, thankfully not looking alarmed as she makes taps at her datapad.

“ _Shit_ , how long was I out,” Jesse asks, voice slurring slightly. He shakes his head to get rid of the last remnants of the pain that had bombarded him, feeling like he’s just gotten over the worst hangover in his life. He goes to rub his forehead to relieve the odd sensation still lingering, and nearly knocks himself back out as the metal hand slaps his face.

Oh, _right_ , he’d forgotten about that. Somehow.

Gabriel is doubled over laughing, Dr. Zeigler clucking at him irritably as she leans over to make sure Jesse hadn’t broken anything.

“You might have some bruising, but it doesn’t seem like you’ve done any major damage. Please remember there will be some time needed to adjust to the prosthetic.”

Jesse nods at her, hearing her words but not truly listening to them. He’s staring at his arm, his _new fucking arm, goddamn_. He flexes his hand, curls the fingers into a fist. He can feel, well, _something,_ he’s not entirely sure how to define it. But he can feel the metal fingers and the pressure of them against the metal palm, the strain of the joint of he turns and bends the arm this way and that. It had been just over two months since ( _the snap of a tendon, the wet crunch of bone. Loosely hanging by a thread and so, so much blood, shredded flesh, god, it was gone his-)_ he’d been captured and lost his arm, but he had slowly become used to the loss. Now that loss could be (mostly) forgotten, and he was (mostly) whole again.

-

The case Gabriel pulled from a shelf seemed heavy, by the _thunk_ it made on the tabletop.

“She’s a rare beauty, this gal. She’s heavy and hits hard, but a damn fickle mistress.” Gabriel opens the case and shows him the guns, no _gun, singular_ , nestled in the foam padding. Long and sleek, but with a stockier barrel than his old revolvers, he had to agree with Gabriel’s sentiment. A rare beauty was just right for her.

“She uses special-made, high caliber bullets, packs one hell of a wallop.”

Jesse gives a low whistle of appreciation as he picks her up, hefting the weight in the palm of his hand, gives it a few experimental spins. She fits like she was made for him specially.

“How ‘bout we go shoot somethin’, boss? Put her through her paces,” Jesse asks, wanting to see just how she handled in the field. Gabriel gives him a toothy grin and claps an arm around his shoulders, steering him out of the armory.

“Sure thing, cowboy. Let’s go see how well you shoot.”

-

Budapest had ended up a disaster. While sure, the files were safe in the briefcase that Gerard held, and everyone was alive (though with a few extra holes, but that wasn’t new), the fact they had to blow up the building on the way out to obscure their involvement wasn’t good. They’d all jumped into the carrier and high-tailed it back to the base in short order, had barely caught their breath when they had landed and all but collapsed once back. Adrenaline still pounded in Jesse’s veins, making his shaky with a nervous energy. Gabriel looked about the same, though he’d spent the entire ride back having an angry, clipped conversation with Morrison.

Jesse was surprised, though not unpleasantly so, when Gabriel had pushed him against a wall and kissed him hard. He couldn’t help the wanton moan that escaped him when Gabriel nipped at his bottom lip, licked his way into Jesse’s mouth to claim him. Jesse’s hat was knocked aside, strong, warm hands finding their way under his breastplate and shirt to trace burning paths on his skin. They finally broke apart, leaving Jesse gasping for air as he pushed Gabriel’s beanie off, gasping a handful of his dark, tight curls. Gabriel growls, lips tracing down his jugular to the junction of shoulder and neck where he bites down and sucks a mark. Jesse gasps and writhes, grinding their hips together and, god _damn_ they both so hard.

Jesse blinks, thinks he sees Commander Morrison down the hallway staring at them. But Gabriel is grinding back into him, sucking another mark a little higher on Jesse’s neck, making Jesse feel like he’s seeing stars. When his vision focuses again they’re both alone in the hallway, and he pushes the thought out of his mind.

“Bunk,” he growls at Gabriel, who, after pulling away from Jesse’s neck, grunts an affirmative. They end up in Gabriel’s room, since it was closest, and soon as the door is shut they’re shucking clothes with no regard to where they land. They at least manage to make it to the bed before tumbling down, a short wrestling match ensuing when, unsurprisingly, Gabriel ends up on top. He pins Jesse’s hands above his head, growls “Don’t move them,” into Jesse’s mouth and then he’s travelling down, biting and sucking his way across Jesse’s chest and abdomen. Jesse can’t hold back the moans because, _fuck_ , Gabriel sure likes to use his teeth and he’s _good_ at it, leaving marks scattered among the scars that litter Jesse’s body. He goes lower, bites down almost too hard on the soft, sensitive flesh of Jesse’s lower abdomen, making him squirm before finally following the track of hair leading to his groin. Jesse wonders, hopes, if Gabriel was going to suck him off, wants to know if he uses his teeth as much there as everywhere else. He shudders at the thought, making sure to keep his hands where Gabriel put them but lifts his head to watch, wants to see those lips wrapped around his cock more than anything. Gabriel, though, never does exactly what he wants him to, instead licking a stripe from balls to tip, maintaining eye contact with Jesse through the entire motion.

Jesse’s heart is in his throat, waiting and wanting for more, can’t stifle the whine when Gabriel pushes away to lean over to the nightstand. He fishes and foil packet and a bottle of lube from the drawer and returns, pulling Jesse’s thighs apart. Jesse automatically forces his body to relax when two slicked fingers rub against his hole, pressing in and opening him up. Gabriel is speaking to him in Spanish, voice a low rumble, but Jesse can’t get his mind to focus on it, isn’t sure he’d be able to translate it anyways. He can only moan and whimper when he’s stretched and the fingers leave, only to return and go harder, deeper, leaving Jesse almost chanting breathily “Yes, more, please, _fuck_.” Gabriel chuckles in response and removes his fingers to tear open the foil packet. He rolls the condom on and slicks himself, lines up and thrusts into Jesse in short order.

Gabriel fucks like he does every, with precision and barely restrained power. Fingers dig into his hips, Jesse knows he’ll have bruises there in the morning.  Every snap of his hips sends electric sparks down Jesse’s spine, makes it that much harder for Jesse to focus on anything but the body above him and the cock filling him. He starts babbling, begging for _more, harder, please, god, fuuuck,_ bucks up against every thrust to push Gabriel in deeper. One thrust hits his prostate and he moans Gabriel’s name like a prayer because he’s close, so damn _close._

Gabriel either must have gotten the memo or was close himself, as his thrusts are harder, more erratic, and he wraps a hand around Jesse’s cock. Gabriel’s hand was warm and calloused, rough with barely any lube but pre-cum, but it only took a handful of strokes before Jesse shudders and his orgasm hits him hard. His eyes screw shut and his back arches, can feel the pulse of it as his cum splashes against his stomach. Gabriel follows after a few more thrusts when Jesse’s body clenches around him, coming with a choked off groan.

They’re still and quiet for a few moments afterward, both trying to catch their breath and calm their racing hearts. Gabriel pulls out, eliciting a slight whimper from Jesse, removes and ties off the used condom. He tosses it and the empty packaging into a waste bin in the corner, gives Jesse a handful of tissues which he uses to clean his spend off his stomach. Jesse tosses the wadded up tissues in the same direction the condom had went, doesn’t care to see if he made it in because now they’re both crashing. The energy and adrenaline now worked out the fatigue sets in, and they collapse together, asleep within moments.

Jesse wakes sometime later, alone. He’s at first unsure where he was, but snippets of the night before begin to return to his memory. He sits up, winces at the ache in his backside, and notices that Gabriel isn’t to be found. He quickly pulls his discarded clothes back on and makes a dash to his own bunk, glad to not run into anyone on the way. He’s not sure how this… fling? Hook-up? Whatever it was has changed anything, if it has at all. Still, he doesn’t want to have to deal with any prying questions or looks, and soon as he’s back in his own bunk he strips his clothes again, shoves them into the laundry pile, and climbs into the shower. After standing under the water till the heat ran out he feels mostly alive and human again.

He could almost think that the previous day hadn’t happened till he sees them. The marks, dark against his skin, from his neck to his groin.

He’s not sure what to make of them.

-

Three days later, after the debriefing about the Budapest debacle, Jesse is cornered by Commander Morrison. He gives Jesse a tight smile and holds out his hat.

“I found this in the hallway the other night, thought you might want it back,” Morrison tells him, and Jesse is suddenly assaulted by guilt. He knew- hell _everyone_ knew- that Jack and Gabriel were a thing, and Jesse is suddenly reminded that he thinks he saw Morrison in the hallway after their return from Budapest. When his boyfriend was busy grinding into Jesse and kissing him.

“Well, mighty kind of you to do so, sir.” Jesse tries to act nonchalant, but every hickey Gabriel gave him feels as if they’re burning holes into his skin. He stuffs the hat back on his head, tips it at Morrison. “Good evenin’ to ya, sir.”

Jesse nearly runs from Morrison, tries to keep his pace and direction as purposeful as possible without seeming like he’s actually fleeing. But he can’t escape the look in Morrison’s eyes, that sadness as he noticed the hickeys on Jesse’s neck. Loss and hopelessness, like the gaze of kicked puppy. He wanted to tell Morrison it didn’t mean anything, he hadn’t meant for it to happen. It was all just a bad accident, they’d been so hyped up on nerves and adrenaline that they’d clung to the nearest person for reassurance that they were both, indeed, living. But he knows it would just fall flat, sound like the limp excuses Jesse was fond of throwing out when trying to shift blame for something dumb he’s done to someone, or something, else.

He can’t outrun the feeling that he’s gotten caught up in something bad, has become the crux of a rift between Gabriel and Jack. He plans on keeping his head down from now on, making absolutely sure he stays the hell away from his commander’s fucked up relationship.

Jesse stomps his way to the firing range, needing to shoot something.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A mission to Japan doesn't quite go as planned for Jesse, and Hanzo severely questions his judgment while drunk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took so long to write, my brain has just not wanted to get it done. But hey, here's some McHanzo smut, hooray! Also a few parts were typed on my phone while at work, and try as I might I haven't managed to polish them too well but they seemed to fit in alright?
> 
> Right, um. Back to my dumpster it is. Enjoy?

Japan was nice, Jesse thought. The people were polite, the climate wasn’t terrible (unlike Russia, he never wanted to go back to Russia), and there was always something entertaining about. Be it a shrine or festival, or the weird little food shops. Or the crazier fashion in some of the alleyway shops. He was enjoying himself, even if he was only here for work and couldn’t truly enjoy the entirety of it.

“The mark was traced to a safe house on the outskirts of Kyoto. It’s a secluded, well-guarded position, so be careful when infiltrating. Intel tells us there are seven targets besides the mark. Remember we want him alive, though we’ll understand if he’s not in perfect health,” Gabriel briefed him over the communicator, still back in the States. They didn’t want to risk moving too many agents in and potentially tipping off the target, or, worse than that, attracting the attention of the Shimada clan. Jesse knew a little of them from Deadlock, knew it was for the best for everyone to avoid the clan of assassins.

The safe house was in the middle of a well sized garden, the sculpted trees and hedges blocking it off from prying eyes and ears. Jesse had left his usual cowboy getup back at the hotel, instead going for dark mottled fatigues that concealed him. Peacekeeper was still strapped to his right side, ready to draw at a moment’s notice, and he had a rifle with a scope as well. He wouldn’t rely of the rifle for shooting, he wasn’t a bad shot with it but his talent was with the revolver against his hip. He was wishing for a cigar by the third hour he’d been watching, seeing no sign of movement in or around the house, when he decided to give up the waiting around. He shouldered the rifle, pulled Peacekeeper out, and snuck quietly through the garden paths to the house. He edged along till he came to a door, not quite slid all the way shut so a beam of thin light escaped, and took a quick peek in. What he found explained the stillness and quiet he’d been observing all night.

“Shit,” Jesse mutters, looking at the corpse slumped against the wall from the door. “Someone done got here and poached our targets.”

“All of them?” Gabriel’s voice crackles over the com, the distortion unable to mask the disbelief. Jesse slides the door open, thankful for the oiled tracks as it did so soundlessly, and ducked in, keeping low. The house was small and did not take him too long to search the whole of it.

“Looks about like that. Not even one guy left to interrogate. Ain’t no regular job neither,” Jesse looks around at the scene of carnage the small house had become.

“Clarify that last comment.”

“These ain’t bullet holes,” he says, kneeling to take a closer look at the nearest corpse. The hole through his forehead was neat, and looking up the smear of blood on the wall projectile had gone into the surface after exiting the back of the skull. There was no telltale splatter of bone and brains like he’d seen from bullets, this was just one long, neat hole driven through the man’s head. He prodded the hole in the wall, thought maybe he could see or feel something still embedded in it. But it was stuck fast, and he didn’t have anything on hand to dig it out with.

“Might be, I dunno, an arrowhead? Reminds me of the wounds from when my pop took me bow huntin’ once,” Jesse mumbles, he couldn’t be sure without a forensic team to analyze the scene.

“Get out of there, agent. Be ready for extraction at the point in two days’ time.” Gabriel sounds mad, though Jesse knows not at him.

“You got it, boss,” Jesse tells him, then slinks back through the gardens. He never saw anything, but the feeling of being watched stayed with him till he’d slid into the alley he’d hidden his serape and the rifle case.

-

He had, yet again, drunk too much sake.

And, yet again, he blames this on Genji.

Hanzo fills the little cup again, emptying out the _tokkuri_. It was his fourth one, and he signals a waitress for another. He was in this deep, he might as well keep going. He generally becomes less inclined to put an arrow through his dear younger brother the more cups he’s in, so Hanzo decides with his alcohol-addled intellect that by drinking more he’s doing Genji a favor.

He’ll keep telling himself that, at least.

If only Genji would actually show their heritage some respect, actually do what was asked of him for once in his goddamned life, he wouldn’t push Hanzo to drinking quite so much. But no, Genji had run off after a cute girl he had seen at a bar, leaving Hanzo to, yet _again_ , complete the mission on his own. Not that he needed Genji’s help, every arrow he shot had found its mark and every target was dead before they could truly figure out what was happening. But still…

The waitress brings another _tokkuri_ , taking the empty one with a bow. Hanzo nods thanks at her, sips his sake a little slower than the previous cups. It did not do him any favors to dwell on his little brother, and his mind needed a distraction from the topic. His eyes settle on a man at the bar, a foreigner from his appearance. He was wearing blue jeans and a white button-up shirt, cowboy boots and hat giving him an unmistakable American flair. Hanzo thought the getup gaudy, couldn’t help scoffing at the look of it. Even if, when the man leaned back to scan the bar around him, it fit his handsome face so well. Their eyes meet, and some half-drunken idea (he’d seen it on a shirt in a market, what was it, ‘save a horse, ride a cowboy’? Something like that.) made him nod at the man. Who took it as an invitation and was swaggering over to Hanzo’s booth.

“Well, howdy partner,” the man drawls, and Hanzo notes the alcohol-induced blush across his tanned cheeks. Seems like the man was as far into his cups as Hanzo was.

“Hello, _gaijin_ ,” Hanzo replies, hating how gravelly the sake had made his voice.

“Seem kinda lonely over here, mind if I join you?” And without waiting for an answer the cowboy nearly falls into the booth opposite Hanzo, though he managed to keep his drink steady. Hanzo wonders what exactly it is, curiosity piqued by his over-indulgence in sake. It hit Hanzo then, the recognition of this man. Maybe the lack of the red cape had slowed it, or just the sake, but it came to him now unbidden. Hanzo had watched this man sneak into the yakuza safe house only to find its inhabitants already murdered, could tell he was reporting his findings to someone else via a communicator. Hanzo had watched from afar, arrow knocked and ready to draw should he determine that this cowboy was a threat worthy of elimination. But he had only prodded uselessly at the corpses before slinking away, somehow light on his feet and with a silence that belied his costume and size.

Hanzo regrets catching his attention now, with sake clouding his judgement.

Especially when the sake tells him to not worry, the man knows nothing of him, who he is. What is one chance encounter, especially when he is also inebriated?

“What brings you to Japan, _gaijin_ ,” Hanzo asks, conversation not one of his strong suits but the sake plying more words from him than he would ever speak sober.

“Oh, just some sight seein’ an-well, nothin’ too important really,” the cowboy trips over his tongue, Hanzo wonders if he’d almost just revealed something he shouldn’t have. The need to pry and maybe uncover something useful, mixed with the questionable judgement of alcohol, has Hanzo smiling at the cowboy.

-

Jesse had drunk too much, as was his case when he’d been back in the gang. He didn’t much care about it right now, though, since he had this lovely specimen of a Japanese man on his lap, kissing and grinding into him with wild abandon. There’s a logical part to his mind that was screeching at him that this was not good, they were both drunk as all get-out, but alcohol had dimmed that voice till he could so easily ignore it.

Jesse couldn’t remember if he’d gotten the mans’ name or not, just remembers some light conversation as he admired the strong lines of his face and those dark eyes, the sleek ebony hair. They’d both been drinking, had drank way too much really it seemed, and had somehow made it back up to Jesse’s hotel room. From there it had all be a fight to see who could remove whose clothes the fastest, how much flesh they could press together.

The lack of a name niggles at Jesse till he can’t bother to ignore it; he pulls back from a kiss to lick at bruised red lips.

“Got a name,” Jesse asks, giving him a short peck on the lips before pulling back again to gaze at the frustrated look aimed at him.

“It is not important,” the man huffs, dipping his head forward for another kiss. Jesse evades him, chuckling when the man gives him a frustrated whine.

“Aw, come on, at least give me somethin’ to call you.” Jesse rolls his hips, grinding their dicks together and making the man shudder and groan, yet still will not give Jesse what he really wants. His eyes catch on the tattoo covering his left arm, tracing the sinuous lines of the dragon from shoulder to wrist, and is suddenly reminded of an old video game he enjoyed as a child.

“Fine, you won’t tell me I’ll have ta just give you one myself,” Jesse grunts, taking both their cocks in hand and giving a few rough, experimental tugs. He revels in the way the man’s head falls back with a moan, exposing the length of his neck and making Jesse want to put his lips on his pulse.

“Such a needy lil’ dragon,” Jesse babbles, not really even quite sure what words fall from his mouth as he works his hand over them. “Dragon seems to fit you right nicely, so I’ll call you Ryu.”

“Your pronunciation is- ah!- terrible,” there’s a shudder and a gasp before he continues, “It is pronounced ree-you, not rai-you.”

“Well thanks for clearin’ that up sweet cheeks,” Jesse almost moans, amazed that he’s being lectured on his Japanese mid-handjob. He picks up the pace, swiping his thumb over the heads of their cocks for the moisture beaded there and using it for lubrication. There’s not enough to soften the harsh pull of his calloused hand but he’s not in the mood to stop, and from the blissed out look on Ryu’s face he’s not adverse to the roughness. Jesse rolls his hips experimentally and is rewarded by a sharp inhale and a quiet moan. Jesse grins and presses the advantage, prosthetic hand skidding over taught abdominals to grasp at Ryu’s amazing pectorals. Jesse had always considered himself something of a boob-man, and by golly did this guy have a set of knockers on him. His prosthetic thumb finds Ryu’s left nipple, rubbing circles on it before pinching it tightly. This apparently does it for the Japanese man, who unashamedly moans loudly before catching Jesse in a bruising and sloppy kiss, his hips snapping upward with every jerk of Jesse’s hand. It’s not much longer before Ryu is shuddering, groaning his orgasm into Jesse’s mouth as he spills himself over Jesse’s hand. Jesse follows on his heels, coming after one final, tight pull and adding to the mess on his hand.

The two men slump together, breathing hard as they fight to regain themselves. Weariness descends upon them; Jesse barely able to clean their mess up before slumping down onto the bed. Ryu snuggles up against him and gives a contented sigh as he drifts off. Jesse pats at his hair awkwardly, unable to keep the stupid grin off his face as he, too, falls asleep.

When he wakes, some hours later, Ryu is still in bed with him though somehow they had managed to tangle their arms and legs together in the night. Some light filters in past the block-out curtains, casting the hotel room in dingy light that McCree was actually thankful for. He could still make out the details of Ryu’s tattoo but it wasn’t enough light to make the headache thudding dully behind his eyes spike worse. He traces a finger along the zig-zag gold lines that remind him of lightening, managing to catch the moment Ryu’s face contorts and his eyes slit open.

Jesse’s heart nearly stops in his chest as he watches the calculations going on behind Ryu’s eyes, expects the smaller man to jerk away from him in disgust. Jesse wouldn’t blame him either; waking up after basically drinking himself silly to find himself naked and in bed with a stranger would (back in the day, not so much anymore) be a right cause to freak out. Ryu, however, takes in the details of his situation like a champ, quirking an eyebrow at Jesse quizzically.

“’Mornin’.” It comes out a croak, his throat and mouth dry as a desert. Ryu snorts a short laugh in response.

“お早う,” he intones, somehow able to speak clearly. Jesse has absolutely no idea what he said, just gives him a grin and tips an imaginary hat. Ryu extracts himself from Jesse, sitting up and stretching his arms over his head. Jesse gives a low whistle as he watches, eyes tracing the long, supple lines of Ryu’s back and arms. He barely knows this man but something warm curls in his gut, giving Jesse a reckless courage and a want to learn more about him.

“How about some breakfast,” he blurts out, blushing furiously when Ryu turns his head to give him a look. Jesse wilts under the gaze, mind racing frantically for an excuse, apology, something that wasn’t pure _stupid_ falling from his lips.

“Sure, why not,” Ryu answers with a shrug, rolling off the bed and scooping up his clothes before heading into the bathroom. Jesse can’t help but stare after him, mind struggling to keep up. He can’t help the grin that spreads across his lips, pumps his fist in the air and whispers a quiet “Yes!” to himself before clambering off the bed to find something clean to wear.

-

The cowboy leaves Hanzo to himself as he sees to his morning ablutions. He ponders what to do; does he ditch the man at the first chance, or actually go on with this odd… thing that has developed? He feels shame burn in his gut; this is not like him. Ignoring duty and rules, running off after the first pretty thing to smile at him, overindulging in alcohol is the territory of Genji. Not stoic, perfect Hanzo. And yet…

And, yet…

Against all odds, this man, this _American_ , has started a fire inside him that he thought could never be done. It is a small flame, flickering wildly in the winds of his ever-present drive to do what he is told, to be perfection in all set before him. Yet he wants, desperately, to cup his hands around this little flame, bow his body over it to shield it from being extinguished, wants nothing more than to nurture and feed it into as fierce a blaze as he’s seen his father’s love for his departed mother. Hanzo is twenty-five, and has yet to meet a single person, male or female, that has captured him like this cowboy. His phone is in his hand without even thinking; he stares at the screen before hitting the call button.

“ _Oi, Nii-san, I was beginning to worry about you!”_ Genji doesn’t sound worried, voice the same mixture of excitement and mocking he saves solely for his elder brother.

“ _Genji, where are you,”_ Hanzo barks, still irritated that Genji had cut and run from their mission the day before.

“ _Rather, where are_ you _, Hanzo? This isn’t like you to not call and harass me all night for running off,_ ” Genji laughs. Hanzo wants to crush the phone in his grip, throw it across the bathroom, something horribly destructive. He takes a deep breath to steady himself, to formulate his plan.

“ _Have you returned to Hanamura yet,”_ he asks, the lack of chiding and lecture throwing Genji off.

“ _I, no. I was waiting for you.”_ Genji sounds subdued, confused at the lack of Hanzo’s usual anger.

“ _Fine, head home. Tell father we finished the mission and that I will be home tomorrow, that I am double checking everything to be safe._ ” Hanzo holds his breath, hopes that Genji will do as he tells him for once in his life.

“ _O…okay? Hanzo, is everything-”_

_“It’s fine. Do as you’re told, Genji. Else I’ll make sure father knows you ran off, among other things. He’ll confine you to the compound for the rest of the year.”_ He can hear Genji sigh and mutter a curse in the background, knows it’s always a gamble when you threaten him. He hopes it pays off this time.

“ _Fine, fine. Just… at least tell me what’s happened,”_ Genji pouts but gives in. Hanzo feels the tension that had coiled in his shoulders unwind, a weight suddenly lifted.

“ _Later, when I get home. If you don’t fuck it up,”_ Hanzo promises, then hangs up. He might come to regret this later, but for now, he wants to enjoy it. He leaves the bathroom, cleaned up and dressed in yesterday’s clothes, long hair pulled back but for his bangs. He watches the cowboy shimmy into a pair of almost too-tight pants and throw a brightly colored cape around his shoulders before pulling on the boots with their ridiculous spurs. The whole ensemble is honestly so cliché, but Hanzo finds himself enjoying it. Enjoying the lines of tight buttocks in those pants, of wide shoulders and back rippling underneath the shirt and cape. Hanzo leans against a wall as the cowboy combs a hand through his messy brown hair, trying to tame it somewhat.

“So, _Gaijin-san_ , do you have a name?” Hanzo decides his can’t just call him _gaijin_ forever, nor cowboy. If they man had given him a name, then he could at least try to pry one from him in return.

“Huh? Oh,” the cowboy starts, having not noticed Hanzo watching him. He strikes a pose, feet spread and thumbs hooked into the belt loops of his jeans, head tilted back and to the side and grinning.

“The name’s Wayne, John Wayne.” He finishes it by tipping an imaginary hat, his own still gracing the top of the dresser. Hanzo snorts, rolls his eyes. Like he was going to buy that.

“John Wayne. Hm.” Hanzo tries the name out, tastes it. It has a ring to it, and apparently just speaking it has made the cowboy blush and stare at his lips. Hanzo takes advantage of the moment, steps close and tangles a hand in the unruly brown locks, pulling him down to slot their mouths together. He licks along the plump bottom lip, nipping at it to elicit a gasp that allows him to thrust his tongue into the cowboy’s- John’s- mouth. Just as John steps closer Hanzo pulls back, heads for the door.

“Coming?” He throws a look over his shoulder, enjoying the confused and aroused look on John’s face as he scrambles to catch up.

-

Breakfast was never really Jesse’s thing. Since he left home it became the one meal he tended to skip, or eat when it was really late at night. The rare times he’s awake before ten in the morning he tries to find a place for some pancakes, maybe even waffles if he’s lucky. He’d found out, thanks to a little book Gerard had chucked at him as he was boarding the carrier, that Japan has a rather different approach to the morning meal. One look at something called _natto_ and he wanted to be sick. He prays that his newfound friend doesn’t want to eat that. He couldn’t bear the sight.

Jesse is lucky, then, when they end up stopping at a convenience store and grabbing fruit and some odd yet not unappetizing bread-like thing. It was apparently filled with chocolate and in his mind, Jesse thinks that it can’t be bad then. He follows Ryu through the winding streets to a park, his attempts at chatting falling flat. He’s not sure what it is about the quiet man, but he has Jesse tied in knots. They find a space under the cherry blossom trees to sit, watching the petals fall like pink-white snow as they eat their meal.

“What does your buckle say,” Ryu asks, the abrupt question breaking through the silence and making Jesse choke on his drink.

“It, uh, it’s not-“ Jesse sputters, because dear god how is he going to explain this without looking absolutely stupid.

“B-A-M-F… I think I have seen it before.” Ryu narrows his eyes in thought.

“It means ‘Bad Ass Mother Fucker,” Jesse groans, burying his face in his hands. Ryu is quiet for moment, contemplative.

“Your ass,” he deadpans, “Is not bad.”

“No, it doesn’t mean-“

“Are you like one of those American children, the ones who play games and claim to have had sex with your opponents’ mother?”

“No,” Jesse shouts, the volume muffled from having his head wrapped in his serape. Ryu laughs, full-throated and deep, the sound sending a jolt straight to Jesse’s groin. Jesse extracts himself from the cloth, tries to level a glare at his companion but the smile he’s greeted with instead causes him to blush further. _He needs to smile more often_ , Jesse thinks, memorizing the way it softens Ryu’s dark eyes. He reaches out, traces the strong line of his jaw with a thumb, has to suppress a shiver as he ghosts over the roughness of stubble along Ryu’s chin. Jesse leans in and captures Ryu’s lips with his own, slowly, gently, as if he were some skittish animal that would bolt at any moment. Ryu reciprocates, lips moving slowly to mirror Jesse’s, and this time Jesse can’t hold back the shudder that quakes through him.

He doesn’t know what he’s done to deserve this. He’s a liar, a murderer, a man who hasn’t shied away from hurting people to get what he wants. This is sweet and tender, suffusing him with a warmth that almost doesn’t seem right.

(But it feels so, so right.)

-

The sun is setting as Jesse and Ryu wander through a busy market. They had spent the day wandering the city, Ryu giving him a tour of all manner of interesting places and things. And Jesse would pick quiet, secluded corners in alleys or shrines to press up against Ryu, kissing the words from his mouth.

(At one shrine, devoid of the foot traffic that he’d seen at the others they had visited, Jesse had dragged a confused Ryu behind the shrine and into the shade. He’d kissed the question from Ryu’s mouth, lips and tongue going at it rougher to distract the man as Jesse fumbled with the button and zipper on his pants. Ryu tries to protest but Jesse has already dropped to his knees as he pulls down fabric and takes Ryu’s cock in his mouth, still soft but thickening quickly as Jesse presses forward to nose at the prickly thatch of pubic hair at the base. He inhales of scent, sweat and musk and the barest hint of the cologne Ryu had on from the night before, works his mouth when the other man tries to voice a protest that this was hardly appropriate at a place like this. Jesse swirls his tongue, grazes teeth against sensitive flesh, sucks and bobs his head to make those protests turn to quiet moans. His hat is taken away to be replaced by hands gripping his hair, cupping the side of his head. It doesn’t take too long before Ryu is breathing hard, hips stuttering as he keeps himself from snapping them forward to well and truly fuck Jesse’s mouth. He groans something in Japanese through clenched teeth, the only warning Jesse gets before the cock in his mouth pulses and Ryu comes, thick and salty in Jesse’s mouth. Jesse hums around the softening flesh, works his tongue against the slit to milk the last of the cum from it before tilting his head slightly to look up. He captures Ryu’s eyes, pupils blown but holding his gaze steady, and swallows. Ryu’s eyes widen slightly, watching the bob of Jesse’s throat then his lips as he pulls away. Jesse tucks Ryu back into his pants, does them back up properly before standing up and pressing another gentle kiss to Ryu’s lips to let him taste himself on Jesse’s tongue.)

Jesse stops before a little shop, eyes going over the assortment of little figurines and knickknacks on display before pulling Ryu in after him.

“I forgot I promised to bring back souvenirs. My sisters would kill me if I didn’t get ‘em somethin’,” Jesse explains when Ryu gives him a questioning look.

“Ah, it would not do well to disappoint your family.”

“Nah, they’d never let me live it down neither. I’ve got three sisters, two older and one younger, so you can imagine the hell they’d put me through for forgettin’ them,” Jesse babbles, picking out a little white cat with a moving arm for Michelle. “My oldest sister liked cats, was always bringing home the strays she found around town to plead with Ma to keep. Ma would always sigh and say fine, but after the fourth one she told Michelle no more. She moped for a week afterwards, till she came down for breakfast one Saturday morning and announced she was going to be a veterinarian. Last I heard she had her own practice somewhere.”

Memories start to surface; a busy Sunday brunch at the church, Catalina beaming after she was elected student body president, Margie embarrassed as Jesse casually threatened her boyfriend with a shotgun on prom night, an American flag draped over a casket, mother crying silently in the summer heat-

_Don’t think about it, don’t think about them, stop it right there._

Ryu is giving him a concerned look, having noticed Jesse going quiet and eyes unfocused as he held the cat figure in his hand. Jesse shakes his head, puts on what he hopes is a reassuring smile. He quickly grabs a few other trinkets, trying hard not to think too hard about his family as he does so.

“Let’s grab some dinner, yeah? I’m starving,” Jesse says, trying his hardest to act normal as he pulls himself back together. Ryu narrows his eyes at him before giving him another rare smile and nodding. Jesse almost melts at that smile, hurries to the counter to pay for his souvenirs.

He studiously ignores the voice in his head that tells him he is so, so screwed.

-

They’re drinking beers after dinner, though they’re nowhere near the point they were the night before, when Jesse suddenly blurts out, “Come back with me, tonight.”

Ryu looks up from his glass, tilts his head in a silent question. Jesse is suddenly more nervous than ever, either it’s the beer or the memories from earlier that have seemed to throw him off.

“I leave in the morning, back to the States. I-I’d like if you’d stay with me, tonight,” he finishes lamely, blushing hard.

_Some covert agent you are, McCree. Telling this stranger all kinds of things when you should instead keep your damn mouth shut._ Jesse hangs his head, swirls his beer before chugging the rest of it, awaiting the decline he just knows is coming.

“That… I would like that,” Ryu answers, slowly. Jesse’s heart soars and he can’t keep the grin off his face.

-

This was new to him. Hanzo is used to be people fearing him, used to the way they can go from warm and polite to cold and terrified when they caught sight of the dragon twined about his left arm. He expected something of the same from John, had steeled himself when they’d returned to his hotel room. Instead John's eyes shine with reverence as he divests Hanzo of his clothes, pressing kisses to every inch of newly revealed flesh. He acts like Hanzo is a present he is allowed to unwrap early, traces his lips down the lines of his tattooed arm, ending with an open-mouthed kiss to Hanzo’s palm. It sends a shudder down Hanzo’s spine, he can feel John smile against his hand before ghosting a kiss across his knuckles then his fingertips. Hanzo presses his fore and middle fingers into John’s mouth, savoring the wet heat and the quiet moan he receives when John’s tongue lathes against the digits.

“Ryu, I…” John begins, has to swallow and lick his lips once Hanzo removes his fingers. His eyes are fever bright as his cheeks turns that lovely shade of red. “I-I want to… To fuck you. Please, can I?”

Something in the way he says it, or the fact that he asked anyways, makes something warm and foreign curl in the pit of Hanzo’s stomach. His voice, when he manages to make it work properly, is husky when he replies “Yes.”

John steps close, a hand sifting through Hanzo’s hair to cup the back of his head, tilting it back slightly so John has to lean down only a little to slot their lips together. It’s soft and gently, completely unlike the frantic, drunken kisses the night before.  John pulls away to quickly shuck his own clothing, giving Hanzo a little grin and a show by wiggling his hips and butt at him. Hanzo huffs a quiet laugh and rolls his eyes, reaching out to smack the shapely backside presented to him. John gives a little yelp, more from surprise than from hurt, turns to give Hanzo a glare but his eyes are shining too bright to make it work. John lays his organic hand on Hanzo’s chest, giving the thick muscles a swift grope before pushing him down toward the bed. Hanzo lets himself be moved, shuffled about till John has him lying back against the pillows with knees bent. John kneels in the space between Hanzo’s legs, runs his hands down muscular thighs as he drinks in the sight, presses a kiss to the side of a bent knee. A flush has decended upon Hanzo’s skin, from his cheeks down to his groin, making Hanzo resist the urge to cover himself. Instead he survey’s John’s body with the same level of scrutiny, taking in the tanned skin dusted with coarse brown hair, the lines and contours of muscles.

John’s hand skates between Hanzo’s legs, tracing fleeting touches against his flushed cock before dipping lower. He cups Hanzo’s balls, rolling them gently in his palm before continuing down, fingertips a tease across the taint then rubbing at his hole. Hanzo shudders, can’t hold in the quiet keening sound and flushes even darker, throws an arm over his eyes to hide. The attention is almost too much, he’s too bared, too open. This whole territory is new to him, makes him burn in embarrassment that Genji has more experience at this than he does, and he has no way of saying any of this to John without further embarrassing himself.

“Shh, it’s alright,” John murmurs, voice a ghost against his knee, voice soft as if he could read Hanzo’s thoughts. “I’m gonna take real good care of you, don’t you worry.”

John leans back over the edge of the bed, rooting through his discarded pants till he straightens with a condom packet and a small bottle of lube. That he was prepared for his makes Hanzo want to shoot him a glare, but before he can a slicked finger returns to rubbing against his asshole. He can’t help the slight gasp as it presses in gently, his body clenching around the unfamiliar intrusion.

“S’alright, jus’ relax,” John murmurs, his robotic hand tracing circles on Hanzo’s hip reassuringly. Hanzo takes a deep breath, lets it out and commands his body to stop tensing. John’s finger begins its exploration again, pulling out then pressing in a bit deeper each time, curling at the joints to begin stretching him. After a few moments a second finger joins it and the process is repeated, in and out, deeper, fingers scissoring apart to stretch him open. It’s such an alien sensation yet it still causes arousal to pool in Hanzo’s belly, hot and insistant, precum beginning to bead at the head of his flushed cock. He shudders and moans quietly when a third finger is added, hips jerking, wanting more, wanting deeper, just _wanting_.

John gives him a grin, leans down to kiss him as he pulls his fingers free. Hanzo whimpers at the loss, nips at John’s lower lip to wordlessly communicate for him to get on with it. John murmurs something, voice thick with arousal and hard for Hanzo to understand, before pulling back to rip open the condom and roll it onto his erection. He slicks it with a dab of lube and a couple of quick strokes, shifting forward awkwardly on his knees till he’s closer. With one hand he slings one of Hanzo’s legs over his shoulder, the other guiding his cock as he teases the head against the slicked hole. He looks up to make some kind of remark, something either sappy or stupid Hanzo is sure, though the words die on lips as he sees Hanzo’s flushed face and arousal-bright eyes.

The press of John’s cock against him intensifies, the thick head finally breaching the tight ring of muscle causing Hanzo to gasp. It keeps going, slowly, so slowly, his body working to stretch and adjust to the size of John’s cock. He can’t help the slight twitch when he feels John’s balls press against his backside when he bottoms out, can’t help when he clenches around the cock inside him, stretching him to just this side of painful. John gives him a few moments to adjust, but waiting isn’t what Hanzo wants. He opens his eyes (unaware he’d even closed them in the first place) and capture’s John’s gaze with him own, then clenches hard around him and jerks his hips.

“Move,” Hanzo commands, voice low and guttural.

John keeps the pace slow, pulling out one slow inch at a time before pressing back in. It drives Hanzo slowly crazy, wanting faster, more, but no matter what he groans at John the pace stays the same. He settles for bucking his hips on each thrust, the lewd slap of flesh on flesh mixing with harsh breathing and quiet grunts. John changes the angle slightly and his cock presses in deep, hitting something that makes pleasure spike across his body. Hanzo can’t stifle the moan that falls from his lips as he arcs his back. John groans in response, hips stuttering just a moment before he’s hitting that spot again, flesh hand wrapped around Hanzo’s cock pumping in time with his thrusts. It’s all Hanzo can do to hold onto his sense of self as he’s assaulted by wave after wave of pleasure. He feels his orgasm building, wants to hold out longer but it’s too much, it’s all too much for him, tries to tell John he’s close but words are hard to form, hard to make any sound that’s not senseless pleading and moans and-

Hanzo’s orgasm hits him hard; every nerve alight, muscles tensing, back arching as spends himself across his abdomen and the hand around his cock. He moans shamelessly, no longer capable of caring if he sounds like a whore when everything feels so good, so perfect for those few moments. John says something, words clipped and voice harsh with arousal, Hanzo’s brain unable to make sense of the english just yet. He can feel the shiver that runs along the cowboy’s body, how his hips stutter and snap back harder and deeper as he loses his rhythm as he chases his own little death with wild abandon. It’s not long before John buries his face in Hanzo’s neck to muffle the grunt he lets out as he comes, shuddering, breathing ragged. They stay like that till their hearts slow their frantic pace, their breathing finally coming in more than gasps and gulps, no more than a minute or two.

John eventually pushes himself up, withdrawing from Hanzo’s body, removing and discarding the spent condom. He flops back onto the bed, shuffles close and spoons up against Hanzo’s back when he shifts to get comfortable. Now that their carnal desires are sated lethargy sets in, dragging them both down into sleep.

-

Morning comes too quickly. John is scrambling to shut off his alarm leaving Hanzo blinking blearily in the weak morning light. He’s sore, as he’d thought he’d be, but he savors it, mentally files it away to remember later when John is back in America and Hanzo is, once again, alone. The prospect that John is leaving in a few scant hours hits him hard and he flees into the bathroom before he does something stupid like tear up.

Hanzo comes back out, having taken a moment to compose himself mentally and physically, to find John writing something on the small hotel notepad. He rips the paper off and hold it out to Hanzo.

“There’s this app that lets you send people lil’ pictures an’ videos… I made an account if you wanna add me, so we can keep up after I leave?” John’s cheeks are flushed and he ducks his head slightly, as if offering this is embarrassing to him. Hanzo doesn’t reply, only takes the slip and finds his phone, finding the app and installing it. After a bit of tapping a little beep sounds on John’s phone, who nearly throws himself off the bed towards the nightstand his device occupied, to look at the screen telling him he has a friend request.

The grin that splits John’s face is almost childish, but it stirs that little flame to life again. Hanzo does his best to memorize it, and every detail he can as he watches the cowboy panic at the time, hurriedly showering and throwing his meager possessions together. He tries to ignore the anxiety, the creeping feeling of loss, that begins to eat away at his insides, knowing that they will probably not see each other again soon, if at all. He wants to affect his usual air of haughty disdain, push away everything that has happened in the last day and a half, but he cannot (doesn’t _want_ to).

Hanzo still steps close once they’re outside, about to part ways, and presses his lips to John’s. He keeps it short and sweet, a mellow goodbye, before stepping back and giving the other man a smile. John blushes, _so lovely_ , before ducking his head and waving as he heads off.

-

The carrier ride back was dull but at least it was quick. Instead of the typical eleven hour flight time on a civilian plane it took only three hours to get back to Los Angeles. Jesse tips his hat and thanks the pilot, trades ones of his cigarillos for the smooth and fast ride. He pulls out his communicator once the commanding officer on base, some stuck-up Overwatch guy who sneers at Jesse when he asks where Gabriel was, eventually informs him that Commander Reyes was currently somewhere off-base.

“We don’t deal with the likes of you,” the man grunts, giving Jesse the ugliest look possible. “And _Commander_ Reyes doesn’t deem it appropriate to keep us updated on his movements.”

“Well, thanks anyways.” Jesse gives him a smile, tries to be disarming but the guy seems to have his head up his ass and just keeps glaring. He never understood why the regular Overwatch guys couldn’t just get along with Blackwatch, but he wasn’t going to sweat it if they didn’t want to. He leans against the side of a warehouse and taps a message to Gabriel, informing him that McCree was back as scheduled and when was his debriefing. Gabriel responds quickly, tells him he’s away on a personal matter and he’ll be back on base in a couple of hours. Now that he has some free time on his hands, Jesse heads into town, looking for somewhere to grab a bite to eat and relax before his commander picks apart his brain for details.

Jesse finds a little diner in an old, worn down suburb near the base. It had a steady stream of traffic in and out, but it was by no means full or busy. It looked as if it had seen many better days, the linoleum floors scuffed up and faded, the faux leather seats cracked and well-worn, but it was clean and that’s all that mattered to Jesse. A waitress who looked much older than she probably was, hair frazzled and dark bags under her eyes, brings him a menu when he slumps into a booth facing the door. He glances it over before ordering, setting his hat on the tabletop after the waitress goes back to the kitchen for his food.  It’s not long before she returns, setting the plate and cup of coffee on the table then retreating back behind the counter. An idea comes to Jesse and he pulls out his phone, opening the messaging app. He takes a quick picture of his food, a slice of apple pie and a scoop of vanilla ice cream, types the caption ‘don’t get much more American than this, home sweet home’, and sends it to Ryu.

He’s hallway through the pie when his phone buzzes in reply.

**Ryu** : You have odd taste in breakfast foods.

That he got a reply makes Jesse’s heart soar. He finishes his pie and heads back to base.

-

Gabriel’s office is small, shoved unceremoniously into a corner of the basement level that Blackwatch had been given to stage their operations from while in America. It doesn’t help that the man seems to never put anything away, letting files, datacards, and other miscellaneous crap pile up on every possible surface. Jesse wonders if part of the super solider program Gabriel had been through gave him the super ability to find anything in the piles of junk. He laughs at his own little joke, a quiet huff as he shoves ammunition cases and a huge pile of assorted newspapers (real, actual paper copies too, a rarity in this digital age) in a wide variety of languages to the floor so he can occupy the lone chair in the corner. He shifts and settles in, waiting for his boss to begin the debriefing. Jesse won’t have to wait long; Gabriel was always quick to get all the information sorted and squared away. In the short moments before that, though, Jesse does a quick evaluation of the events, determines what exactly Gabriel needs to know.

Jesse hears voices in the hallway, sits up slightly in the chair and ready to stand and salute his commander when he walks through the door. He can’t help but listen in, another bad habit Gabriel hadn’t been able to break from his Deadlock days. The conversation, no, _argument_ , going on outside makes Jesse want to both keep listening and deafen it out at the same time.

“I’ve told you, countless times Reyes, that you have to have every mission and requisition approved by myself,” Strike-Commander Morrison is explaining with great exasperation.

“If that was the goddamn case then there’s no need for Blackwatch at all. We don’t need, or want, you sticking your nose down here. You’ll slow us down and get us tangled in so much fucking red tape-“

“Don’t try and feed me that bullshit, Reyes. Remember Budapest?”

“Yeah, and it’d have done fine without you interfering with our plans,” Gabriel spits back. _Everyone fucking remembers Budapest,_ flitting through Jesse’s mind.

“It was supposed to _help,_ I was worried about you _._ Gabriel, listen-“

“No, you fucking listen Morrison,” Jesse can imagine Gabriel crowding into Morrison’s personal space, using every bit of his extra bulk to try and make Morrison back down. “You stay upstairs and keep control of your Overwatch _boy scouts_ ,” Gabriel hurls the insult like poisoned barbs. “You leave the covert shit to us. We handle things just fine without you trying to muck it up with your _procedures_ and _regulations_. We’re fucking covert ops and I’m in charge down here, not you. So shut up and let us do our job.”

There’s a pregnant moment of silence before Jesse hears Morrison exhale loudly, can fully imagine the disapproving look adorning his face.

“Alright, fine. Have it your way. But if I hear one more report about one of your missions ending in _five fucking buildings demolished_ , then we’re going to have another talk, and it will not end as nicely as this one. Understood?”

“Yes _sir,_ ” Gabriel replies, so much mocking shoved into one small word Jesse didn’t think was possible. Jesse listens as the head of Overwatch stomps back upstairs, Gabriel muttering a constant string of insults under his breath in Spanish. Jesse slumps back into the chair, hurriedly pulling his cowboy hat lower on his face and tries to look like he’s dozed off waiting for Commander Reyes, can’t help the start he gives when he hears Gabriel punch the wall and growl something undiscernible under his breath. A few moments later Gabriel stalks into his office, having calmed down somewhat before nearly throwing himself into the chair behind his desk. It creaks ominously under his weight and Jesse uses that moment to shuffle about, yawn, and blink sleepy-eyed at his commander. He doesn’t have to feign the look of being caught doing something he shouldn’t have, rising to his feet clumsily and snapping a salute.

“Sorry, sir, didn’t mean to drift off for a while there.” Gabriel rolls his eyes and motions him to sit back down. Jesse thanks his lucky stars for what must have been the hundredth time since taking this bargain that Reyes seemed to actually like him.

“At ease, McCree. Now tell me about Japan.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The small bit of Japanese is 'good morning'. Thank you Google translate~
> 
> The app they're using is basically snapchat. But futuristic snapchat?
> 
> Anyways, I'm going to try and add in a bit of humor in the next chapter. I've gotten a little of it written but god knows how long it'll be before its done... considering how long this one took.
> 
> Thank you everyone for the comments and kudos! You guys have no idea how happy it makes me to see an email saying I have kudos in the middle of a stressful workday!
> 
> As always, I'm [asalade](http://asalade.tumblr.com) on tumblr if you'd like to drop by! (note: I reblog as much NSFW shit as I can, so be warned.)

**Author's Note:**

> Writing this has suddenly made me really want more Jack/Gabriel in my life, or just more Gabriel/anyone really. I'm becoming attached to our resident edgelord.
> 
> Next chapter is the McCree/Hanzo if anyone was wondering. It just felt better to end at that point than keep going.
> 
> I'm [asalade](http://asalade.tumblr.com) on tumblr if you'd like to drop by!


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